Fight the Good Fight
by paperbkryter
Summary: A post No Rest for the Wicked fic - yet another take on the aftermath, as related by Ellen.


Author's Note: I had heard somewhere that Ellen was supposed to make an appearance in No Rest for the Wicked and I have to say, I was very disappointed that she didn't. This is the result of my disappointment - written only days after the episode aired.

* * *

_The days grow shorter and the nights are getting long,  
Feels like we're running out of time.  
Every day it seems much harder tellin' right from wrong,  
You got to read between the lines.  
Don't get discouraged, don't be afraid, we can  
Make it through another day,  
Make it worth the price we pay..._

* * *

It was Bobby who came first, some sort of advance warning I guess, or maybe just testing the waters. It's been a year since I lost the Roadhouse. That made it a year since I got away from Hunting – not that I was a Hunter of any sort. It's a whole other world, a dark, dangerous underground that would scare the shit out of denizens of your usual dark underground. I never wanted Jo to go so deep. Living on the outskirts like we did, that was okay. Well, she had different plans. Too much her father's daughter, but that's another story.

I knew about Dean's deal. Everybody did. Hunters are a gossipy bunch. It's in the job description. A lot of the things they Hunt started out as gossip until someone believed enough to take a second look. Surprise, surprise, there are such things as vampires. People knew John Winchester had been after a demon for killing his wife, and that he pulled some miracle out of his ass to save his kid – only it turned out not to be so miraculous. They called him a fool for dealing with demons. Following in his father's footsteps and making a deal for his little brother got Dean labeled an idiot.

You see, demons talk too, and Hunters are pretty good at sorting through the bullshit from the intel. Demons were saying there was something fey about Sammy Winchester, that he was a wolf in sheep's clothing, their foretold messiah. Translated into Hunter terms it meant Sam was the anti-Christ, and fair game for a bullet. Dean was not only an idiot, but a Judas. Hell was his just desserts.

Me? I know a mixed up kid when I see one. Someone dumped those two boys in a blender and pushed puree, 'cause they were mixed up good. Sam was too damn scared to be scary. Dean was only guilty of having a soft spot when it came to family.

Don't we all?

So with the Roadhouse gone, and Jo off God knows where, them boys and Bobby were the only family I had left. When Bobby showed up all shell shocked and asking for help, what was I supposed to do?

At least I didn't have to make no damn deal with a demon.

* * *

I had a little house in Lincoln. It wasn't much, just a little cracker-box Cape Cod big enough for Jo and me. When Bobby came knocking it was just me. I'd been putzing around the house for that whole year, trying to figure out what the hell I was going to do with myself and to tell the truth I lost track of time. When I opened the door and Bobby was there looking like someone ran over his dog, I figured I'd missed Dean's funeral and the old man needed a shoulder to cry on.

Old man. Listen to me, like I'm some sorta spring chicken. Set up against those baby-faced Winchesters we're all old and decrepit.

"Bobby," I said.

"Ellen." By God something _was_ wrong because he took off his hat. "We need your help."

I took a look over his shoulder. "We? You got a mouse in your pocket?" I held the door open and motioned him inside. "Come on in and explain yourself. It's early for whiskey but..."

"I'll take it."

Folks, it was eight in the morning. Bobby isn't such a lush he'd be drinking whiskey that early – and doffing that hat – unless something had really gotten under his skin. As tough as Bobby Singer's skin is, that's a really unnerving way to see him. I sat him down and made sure I got out _two _shot glasses.

I poured, he drank, and drank one more before he got down to telling me what was going on.

"Dean's contract came due," he said. "Two nights ago."

I took a seat, and downed a shot myself. "Damn, Bobby. I'm sorry. How's Sam holdin' up?"

"He's not dead."

It took me a second to figure out he meant Dean, not Sam.

"How'd he get out of it?"

"He didn't."

Now I knew the only way out of a deal with a demon was to keep playing cards – if you still had bargaining chips – but eventually you were always dealt a bad hand and forced to pay up. There wasn't much left for those boys to give up to keep Dean alive even if they were stupid enough to stay sitting at that blackjack table.

"What? What do you mean?"

He was shaking his head, as if he didn't get it either. He laid off the whiskey though, toying with the empty shot glass all nervous-like. "This stuff," he said. "With Sam...it's big. Real big."

"I've heard inklings," I admitted.

"You ain't heard jack." Bobby set the glass down hard on the table and looked me right in the eye. "Ellen. I was there. I saw what those hounds did to that boy. He was shredded. Nobody could have survived that." He paused, and added quietly, "Nobody did."

"But Dean did, you just said..."

"No. He didn't."

"Bobby you're talkin' in damn circles. What the hell happened?"

"Sam brought him back."

I still wasn't quite getting it. "He made a deal," I said.

"No," Bobby poured himself another shot and downed it. "Sam. Brought Dean back himself."

We both kinda chewed on that for a second. I really didn't want to go where my head was going, and I don't think Bobby wanted to hear it.

"Bobby." I couldn't bring myself to speak above a whisper. "Are we talking resurrection? Honest to literal God-type resurrection?"

"That's exactly what it was. I would have never believed it if I hadn't seen..." I noticed a bit of a tremble in his hands. "He brought Dean back, nearly healed him completely. Not only that, but he survived a demon attack that should have killed him _and _leveled half the town."

This time I reached for the whiskey. "What have we got here, Bobby?"

"Honestly, I don't know."

One question we were both skirting around was, _"What side is he on?" _

"So Dean's okay?" I asked. For all that I wanted him to stay the hell away from Jo, I still liked the cocky son-of-a-bitch.

"He's alive," Bobby grunted. "Still pretty banged up. That's why we need your help."

"My help?"

"Yeah, there's still one bad-ass bitch of a demon out there and we've got her on the run. Sam and I are goin' after her."

"And Dean is still too banged up be of much help."

Bobby was frank. "We could still lose him, not to mention the fact this bitch would definitely come after him if she knew what Sam had done. We can't leave him alone to fend for himself."

I got it then. Wasn't sure how I felt about it either. Frankly, I was a little annoyed. "You need a babysitter – or a nursemaid."

"We need a friend."

Good old Bobby, always saying just the right thing.

"Yeah," I said. "He can stay here. I'll look after him, ward the place too just in case."

The relief on Bobby's face worried me a little. This whole thing had him rattled and Bobby didn't rattle easily.

"How's this going to end, then, Bobby?" I asked quietly.

He gave me a grim look as he reached for the whiskey one last time. He drank a shot before answering.

"Badly."

* * *

The rumble of a car engine got my attention. I knew that sound, that particular engine. I remembered when John Winchester used to drive that old Chevy, and I remembered the sound of that engine as he and Bill drove away from me for the last time. I'd never see my husband again, and it was a long time before I could forgive John. He never came to see me again face to face. He broke the news to me about Bill over the damn phone. It took a while for me to get over that. A man who fought what he fought, killed what he killed, lived like he lived, shouldn't have been such a coward. I did forgive him though, and I missed him.

He would have been so proud of his boys.

John told me once he never wanted it to turn out like it did. He'd considered giving them up, sending them to foster care, but the fact of the matter was that he knew what killed Mary would be back. Nobody could protect his children as well as their own father. He taught them how to take care of themselves _and_ he taught them to take care of each other.

"Sammy," he'd said – and I confess he was three sheets to the wind that night. "Sammy's so smart. Everything is about learning, knowing stuff. He could do anything, _be_ anything. And Dean...he's got heart, you know? Tough as nails that kid, with so much to give. He's a natural leader. People will follow him anywhere - and he'll take care of 'em."

Yeah, and I wish to God Jo hadn't followed him to Philly.

At any rate, I recognized the car. That big black Chevy pulled up in the driveway with Sam Winchester, not John, behind the wheel this time. Despite what Bobby had told me I was a little surprised Dean wasn't driving. I knew it was just in my head, but for some reason I never even thought Sam _could_ drive. In all the times I'd seen them come and go from the Roadhouse, I'd never once seen Dean ride shotgun. He was always in the captain's chair.

It was mid-day when they got there, not a good time of the day for Hunters. Hunters spent most of their time in the dark, working - sometimes literally - the graveyard shift. After all, night was when the scary stuff usually came out to play.

The sunlight wasn't good to Sam. He got out of the car and the first thing I noticed was how utterly exhausted he was. The boy looked like two-day old roadkill – squashed flat. It was obvious he'd neither slept, eaten nor bathed for days. I'd guessed him before at twenty-five but he looked twice that , especially in the eyes. He'd seen way too much horror in the past twenty-four hours. It had aged him.

I met him at the car. "Ellen," he said, after a quick hug. "Thanks."

Even his voice was all wrong. It was low, and very hoarse. There were bloodstains on his jacket. Even if I hadn't seen it, I would have smelled it. He smelled like death.

"Sam." I frowned at him. "Hun, are you sure you don't want to come in for a while, get some rest?"

He shook his head. "I have to follow this through, before the trail goes cold."

There wasn't much to say to that. I knew how it was. I'd been married to a Hunter, lived among them for years. You don't give up on a hot lead.

I heard the car door creak. Sam left me quickly, rounding the hood to the passenger's side to help Dean out of the car.

And man, if I thought Sam looked like shit...

Dean was as white as a sheet. I'd never seen anyone look like that and still be breathing. Corpse white he was, more dead than alive. His right arm was in a sling. His left was wrapped around Sam for support. Sweat beaded up on his face with every slow, agonizing step he made toward the porch, even with Sam carrying most of his weight. Fresh blood was spotting his t-shirt, even through a thick later of bandages. A dark stain had spread across one thigh. It was bad, real bad. Bobby hadn't been telling tales when he described Dean as "shredded."

Whatever Sam had been through had aged him. Whatever Dean had gone through had broken him. It was in his eyes. He wasn't focused, barely "there" at all. The only time the light came on was when he got jostled or took a misstep. Pain seemed to animate him. It took his breath, twisted his face, and made his fist clench in the cloth of Sam's jacket.

He saw the two steps leading up to my front door and his expression crumpled, as if they were some insurmountable obstacle. I could barely hear him say, "I can't, Sammy."

I tried to help, but Sam just shook his head at me. With a grimace he actually bent and slipped an arm under Dean's legs, lifting him off the ground. It was hard to watch, not only because it obviously hurt Dean, but because it was just so – wrong – to see them like that. The last time I'd seen the boys in person Dean been twirling a gun around on one finger, drinking whiskey, and giving Sam a hard time about his taste in music. Sam had shot him the bird and told him to sit and spin.

"Living room," I said. "I've made up the sofa bed."

I went ahead to pull back the sheets, Sam laid his brother down gently. "I've got stuff in the car – clothes, bandages..."

"He been seen by a doctor?"

Sam's expression turned sheepish, guilty. "No," he said quietly. "Couldn't risk it. I stitched up what I could myself." He fumbled in his pocket and took out two prescription bottles. "I got this. This one is an antibiotic – hard core stuff. This is for pain. I wanted some morphine but..."

I'd patched up a few Hunters in my time. We hoarded meds like junkies. You never knew when you'd need it. "I've got some."

"Thanks," Sam chewed his lip. "Thanks, Ellen. I'd stay if I could. It's not that I don't want to."

"But you need to get that bitch, yeah I know. I understand."

He threw a glance toward the bed. Dean had his eyes closed, breathing heavily, his face still very pale and damp with sweat. Sam was definitely torn between staying and going. It was easy to see why.

"He'll be pissed at me," he said. "For going alone."

"Isn't Bobby going with you?"

"Yeah, but you know...it's not the same." He shifted his weight nervously back and forth. "Ellen..."

"We'll be fine, Sam."

"You'll call me if...

I took him by the shoulders. "Yes. Now go."

Watching that big black car pull out of my driveway, I thought about Bill, and John, and all the others who had sacrificed their lives. I saw Sam break down just as the Chevy hit the street. He drove away bawling like the scared kid he really was underneath it all. Everything just hit him all at once. I only hoped he'd get it together real quick or we were all fucked.

I went back into the house. I locked all the doors and windows. I laid down salt and herbs and every ward against demons I knew. I wasn't taking any chances.

It was just a feeling I had.

* * *

I expected Dean to be a pain in the ass, the kind of patient you half wished would just drop dead already. Whiny, demanding, complaining about absolutely everything...

What you expect isn't always what you get.

For the first few hours I let him sleep, after giving him more antibiotic and some morphine. The morphine should have knocked him on his ass. It did do a number on the pain, but he still slept restless, groanin' and moanin' and calling for Sam. Once he let out a yell that scared the bejesus out of me. I thought sure something had gotten in and was ripping him apart.

Again.

But it was just a nightmare. I grabbed hold of his hand and he settled right down.

I was nearly noon again before he woke up. I'd managed to grab a few hours myself overnight. I finished breakfast and rechecked the wards on the windows. When I went into the living room his eyes were open. Under better circumstances the confused look on his face might have been funny. Part of what made it not funny was what he said, and how awful he sounded when he said it.

"Where's Sam?"

It was a whisper so soft I barely heard him. He just didn't have to strength to get any volume into it.

"Gone."

"Gone? Gone where?"

"Huntin' a demon with Bobby." I waited, expecting some macho attempt at getting out of bed. He didn't budge. "He's fine," I added, seeing the confusion switch over to fear and worry. "He's already called three times to check on you."

I don't know what was going' on in his head, but it didn't look good to me, especially when he didn't say anything else. In my experience up to that point, Dean _always_ had something to say.

"Are you hungry?"

He shook his head. "Help me up."

"Dean..." I said warningly. "Don't get any ideas."

"I've got to piss, Ellen," he said wearily.

Well. There was no arguing with that.

I helped him sit up, and then slipped under his left shoulder. It was slow going, it hurt him bad, but it preserved what little pride he had left. By the time I got him back to bed the bit of color he'd gotten back after resting was long gone. I pulled fresh bandages and clean clothes out of the bag Sam had left. Dean watched me warily. When he figured out what I was up to there was a stare down.

"I've been a wife and a mother," I said. "You've got nothin' I haven't seen before." When he didn't yield I added. "You want to die of gangrene?"

He didn't say it. He didn't have to. I read it in his body language. This kid was like a beaten dog. He didn't give a damn if he lived or died anymore.

Winchesters are stubborn, but so am I, and he ended up stripped down to his skivvies. I was as careful as I could be when I took off the old bandages but he still hissed here and there when something stuck. Fresh and dried blood had combined to make a mess. I took some antiseptic and cleaned him up before I re-wrapped everything.

If Bobby hadn't told me what had happened, I would have been wondering how Dean was even alive. He was a disaster beneath those bandages – bruised, torn, scarred. Some of the wounds had healed completely, leaving ugly, raised white lines all over his torso. The wounds that hadn't quite healed all the way were stitched up with small, neat sutures that must have taken hours to put in. It was no wonder Sam had been exhausted. Stitching Dean back together alone would have drained him.

The wounds that hadn't healed, that were too wide and too deep to suture, were the ones causing problems. There were hideous claw marks upon his chest and abdomen leaving virtually no skin or flesh to get a stitch through. One had cut so deep across his ribs it had exposed bone. His back looked as if he'd been flayed, his right shoulder was hamburger. A trio of deep gouges ran the length of his left thigh from hip to knee. Sam had attempted to sew these up too, but they still oozed blood. I worried about blood loss, but found the femoral artery hadn't been touched – or if it was, it had been healed. The cuts were just real bad, real ugly.

I wrapped him back up good and fed him more antibiotic. Infection was a big worry - I doubted Hell Hounds practiced good hygiene. I threatened him into a few spoonfuls of warm cereal and a glass of juice too.

Aside from a few whimpers, he'd been quiet while I tended him. It wasn't until he finished the juice and swallowed something for the pain, that he started talking. But it wasn't me he wanted to chat with.

"I want to talk to Sam."

I won the first battle. I let him have this one, handing over my phone and retreating to give him privacy. Honestly, I did eavesdrop. Rationalized it pretty good though. I didn't want him to get too upset and hurt himself.

"Why?" was the first thing he said, followed by:

"I don't care."

Then:

"I didn't want that, and I don't want you to do _this_!"

And:

"Because you gave them just what they wanted, Sam! Dammit!"

Finally:

"Screw it. Come back in one piece, and come back my brother, or don't fucking come back at all."

I came back around the corner and leaned in the doorway. He'd dropped the phone onto the bed and was staring out the window so I could just see a three quarters view of his face. It hit me that this man, this boy, wasn't much older than my Jo.

Like I said, those Winchester boys got screwed from the very beginning. It was easy to feel sorry for Sam, growing up without ever knowing his mother, cursed by some demon. Sam wore angst like a comfy sweater. He knew he was fucked.

Dean though, he remembered what "normal" meant. All his bullshit was just him trying to maintain some sort of status quo, even if it meant living the weird-ass life of a Hunter. When that status quo got messed up, he got pissed and went about setting it straight again. It didn't surprise me that he made the deal he did. Dean was a "here and now" man - hold everything together with duct tape and rubber bands until you can fix it right. Do whatever you have to do to keep on going.

This time his temporary fix fell apart before he could shore it up right, and it had started an avalanche. Everything was getting out of control, specifically, out of _his_ control. He couldn't get it back. Not only that, he wasn't sure anymore if he wanted it back.

Dean, he remembered normal. He wanted normal, but he wasn't ever gonna get it, and more than that, Sam wasn't going to get it either, no matter how much Dean tried to help him.

Failure is a hard pill to swallow. Failure and futility will choke a man to death.

I walked over to the bed and picked up the phone. "That was a little harsh."

He didn't answer me. He didn't even look at me.

"You know, I get it," I said. "What you did, what you went through – you feel like Sam's just throwin' it all away for nothing. 'Nothing' is relative, Dean. To him, you're not nothing. He's seen somethin' inevitable comin' and the only thing that can save him is you."

When he turned to look at me there were just the hint of tears in his eyes. "I thought I did," he said roughly. "When I brought him back but..." Clearing his throat, he shook his head. "If I can't..."

"What? What is it?"

He told me then what John's last words to him were, told me John made him swear to kill his own brother if anything should go wrong with Sam - if Sam went "darkside." As painful as the confession was for Dean, I don't think he realized how much it hurt _me_ to hear it. See, I left out a few things when I told Jo what happened to her Daddy. I didn't think she could understand it. I didn't think she'd be able to look at Sam and Dean and not blame them for what their father had done.

John Winchester had been a soldier long before he started Hunting. He had been to Vietnam. He had seen some bad things there, and he knew what suffering looked like. He ended Bill's suffering when there was no hope of saving him. It had been the hardest thing he'd ever had to do. He'd never forgiven himself even though I did, Bill would have, anybody would have.

The bottom line: John could never have done what he asked of his son. He'd known saving Dean's life with his deal would be like throwing kerosene on a fire, but in the same sense he'd known how things might turn out regardless. No matter what mistakes he'd made in the past, those boys always, _always_ came first. He couldn't let Dean die back there in that hospital, and there was no way he could have ever put a bullet in Sam.

He let himself go instead, putting all his faith in Dean's loyalty and Sam's ability to know right from wrong. It was a win-win situation. One way or another things would all turn out right.

"I should never have brought him back. It was stupid, and selfish..."

"And the right thing to do," I said sharply.

"Was it? He's tapped into all that psychic crap, stuff he shouldn't be messing with, just to bring _me_ back. It's not worth it, Ellen! He's walking right into their hands!"

"Maybe. Maybe not. Give him a little credit why don't you?" I sat down on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle him. "If you hadn't made that deal, that yellow-eyed bastard would still be around, and do you think for a minute that Jake kid would have told the demon army to go screw itself like Sam has? He's not run off to join up, he's run off to do some ass kickin'."

Letting his breath out in a sigh, Dean turned away from me. "It doesn't matter. I'm his weak spot. Even you know that or there wouldn't be salt on that windowsill."

"You only make him weak when you hold him back, Dean. Try to have the same faith in him as he has in you."

He didn't say anything more after that, and I just let it be.

* * *

Both of us napped during the afternoon. Dean had actually asked for painkiller, which told me he must have really needed it. I gave him more of the morphine. He was out for a good long time. I cleaned up around the house, double checked the doors and windows, and made something to eat for later. Figured when Dean woke up he would have to be hungry and if he wasn't, I was going to feed him anyway, even if I had to sit on him to do it.

I didn't intend to sleep as long as I did. It was after dark when I woke up, and I woke up suddenly. Some sixth sense, some subconscious alarm bell told me something was wrong. I slipped a hand under my pillow and eased the safety off the gun there. I made a noise like I was still half asleep to cover a slight turn of my head. Out of the corner of my eye I could just make out a shadow standing in my bedroom doorway.

I would have shot his damn fool head off if he hadn't said something.

"Ellen, it's me."

"Dean." I let go of the gun and sat up. "Son of a..."

"Don't," he interrupted quickly. "Don't turn on the light."

The next thing he said got me out of bed with a chill running down my spine.

"We're in trouble."

I joined him at the doorway. "You shouldn't be up!"

"I'm not arguing that," he muttered.

His face was very pale in the dark, and tense with pain. His leg was bleeding again too but he waved off my help as he hobbled to the kitchen window. I edged up to the side of it and peered out into the house's postage-stamp sized yard. There under a street lamp in the alley, were a man and a woman. They were just staring at the house.

"There are three more out front," Dean said quietly. "And one at the east side window."

Even in the dark I could make out those black-as-pitch eyes.

"Crap. Demons."

"Yeah, they finally figured out I'm not where I'm supposed to be." The tone was bitter. "Dammit, Sam!"

"You call him?"

"Yeah, and Bobby. No answer."

I didn't like _that _answer. "Now what?"

His voice was very quiet, very odd sounding to me. I was used to the cool, cocky, confident Dean Winchester. I knew that Dean, both from being around him in person, and from everything I'd ever heard about him over the years. His father, his brother, other Hunters, all had nothing but praise for his dedication to the job. He never backed down from a fight.

"I don't know," he said.

I turned my attention away from the demons outside to look at him. It was dark, but I could see him well enough to recognize that beaten dog look again, and something else. He was scared. He was real scared and not bothering to hide it. When he limped away from the window to a chair by the table, he didn't just sit in it, he crumpled into it. One of the markers I'd used to draw wards at the windows was clenched in his hand, and that hand was shaking.

I didn't say anything. I went to the cupboards and found some spray bottles. I dumped the cleaning stuff that was in them down the sink and rinsed them out good. While the _Hunter_ sat on his ass, I was hustling ass to pull together some sort of weapon. There was a plastic jug of water in the fridge, and a rosary in my bedroom. I dropped them on the table in front of him.

"You know how to do this," I said.

Holy Water. Making it was the first thing any Hunter worth their salt (no pun intended) learned how to do. It was basic. It was familiar. I knew it would shake him out of his funk, at least temporarily. I listened to him recite the Latin phrases as I laid down salt and marked out a Devil's trap in front of the kitchen doors. We'd make our stand there. The room had only one window and one door.

I filled the spray bottles with the blessed water. We both had guns too – not that they'd do any real hurt to a demon. Might slow 'em down a little bit but that was all. I stood watch at the window. Dean didn't move from the table. He faced the door though, and could give us some warning if he saw anything coming'. I heard him try the phone again. I could heard Sam's voicemail message over the speaker. Bobby's never connected at all.

After he hung up, Dean didn't look scared, he looked terrified. That didn't boost my confidence none, let me tell you. A Hunter that's lost his nerve is a dead man.

"I wasn't supposed to remember," he said quietly, putting his phone away.

"Remember what?"

He kept going as if he hadn't even heard me. "Before, you know, when Dad...when Dad brought me back. I don't...I don't know what went on while I was dying. Sam says I was there – my spirit – but I don't remember." His shoulders seemed to slump more and more with each word, like they were buckling under some heavy weight. "Sam...if he's telling me the truth – and..." Here his voice broke a little. "I don't know if he is anymore – he doesn't remember either."

"Dean..."

"But I remember," he whispered. "I remember dyin' and I remember..." Finally he seemed to realize I was still there and looked up at me with such a pleading expression I was stunned for a minute. Honestly, I wondered who the hell I was dealing with because it couldn't have been Dean Winchester.

It took me a minute to get hold of myself, to recover from that look. I don't think I've ever seen anyone so beaten down before or since. It's hard to witness. It really is.

I knew though, that we both had to be on our game if we were going to survive.

"Look," I said, stalking back over to the table. "I know what you've been through..."

"You can't poss..."

"Shut up and listen to me!" I jabbed a finger on the table in front of him. "I know you've been chewed up and spit out, Dean, and I feel for you, I really do, but now is not the time for a damn pity party. You suck it up and deal right now or we're both gonna die, and that will really, really, piss me off. You want that on your conscience? You want to buddy up with _me_ in Hell? No. You don't."

He stared at me for what felt like a friggin' hour. It was a little bit of a struggle, but he managed that shit-eating grin I was more used to seeing. What he said was smart-assy too. Pity though, he sounded so daggum tired, it lost a lot of its punch. I might have laughed otherwise.

"You know," he said. "You're kinda sexy when you're pissed, Ellen."

I didn't laugh, but the comment did knock a little wind out of my sails. I went back to the window, checked to make sure the demons were still keeping' their distance, and started to make coffee. I figured if we were gonna go through a siege we'd better be well caffeinated.

"Later," I said, after the coffee got to brewing.

"Later? Mrs. Harvelle are you trying to seduce me?"

I raised an eyebrow. "The Graduate?"

Dean looked decently sheepish. "What?"

"I'd expect that from your brother, not you."

He shrugged. "I drive a classic car, I like classic movies. Besides, Anne Bancroft is hot for an old chick."

"An old chick?"

"Yeah, you know the over four...oh."

"Later," I said. "I will smack the crap out of you." I harrumphed under my breath. "Old chick. Old chick my over-forty ass."

I heard a sigh, and very faintly, a chuckle. I kept an eye on him while I finished up making our coffee; one eye on Dean and the other on our wards, making sure the demons were staying put. Dean was obviously in a lot of pain just from the set of his jaw and the way his hands continued shaking. The fear was still there too but he was holding it back well enough. That's Dean though. Under that devil-may-care armor he wears he cares a lot. Maybe he cares too much. In any case, he knew he had to be "on" for my sake and was making a heroic attempt to do just that.

"You okay?" I asked.

"Honestly? No." He shook his head. "But like you said, first things first."

"Sure you don't want to take somethin'?"

"I'm sure," he gave me a sad, wry grin. "Hell hurt a whole lot worse." I handed him a hot cup of joe. "Ellen, what did you really mean when you said, 'later?'"

"Rain check," I said, spooning a goodly heap of sugar into my cup. "On the pity party."

"Oh." Oh. He said it in a tone that clearly said he regretted he'd said anything to me, shown any weakness. "Nah, that's over," he added. "Done."

I believed that – not.

"No it isn't over. You need to get a lot of poison out of your system. I'm offerin' up a shoulder to cry on, just me and you, nobody else...but _after_ we get out of this mess."

"_If_ we get out." I scowled and he gave up a little more. "You forget, the last time I got backed into a corner like this, I wound up in the Pit. I can't be Mr. Happy Sunshine here, Ellen. Ain't gonna happen."

"Point taken," I admitted. "But you aren't gonna die here tonight, and you certainly aren't goin' to Hell."

He raised a brow at how confident I sounded. "You sure about that?"

"I'm real sure. No demons are gettin' near either of us. I'm not only sexy when I'm pissed, I'm downright scary."

"Yeah, that's a damn scary Windex bottle you're packin'. What's it shoot? Stream _and_ spray?"

I grinned back at him. "Smart ass." We both got serious real quick though, looking at each other from over the edges of our coffee mugs. I put mine down and told him what I'd meant. "Dean, I mean it. We're not dyin'. And later, we'll talk, okay?"

He didn't answer, and he wasn't quick enough when he looked away. I'da sensed them even if I hadn't seen them.

I'm a mom. You can't hide tears from a mom.

* * *

We got maybe two cups of coffee down us and stopped. Caffeine was handy in a fight. Having to piss like a racehorse wasn't. Not much was said. We were both listening. Dean tried Sam again. Nothing.

He was starting to look a little peaked, real pale. He shouldn't have been out of bed. I'd see the mess that damn hound had made of him. Under different circumstances I would have called him a fool, but under these circumstances I was really impressed with his staying power. Any other man would have been down for the count. Dean sat at my kitchen table, weapons (such as they were) at hand, ready to rally a defense against some demonic sons-of-bitches.

I went to check the window. I was checking every few minutes. This time I noticed the demons had moved closer. "Dammit."

"What?"

"They're movin' in. If these are, you better bet the others are too. Keep an eye on that doorway."

I heard the chair scrape on the linoleum. A second later I heard a muffled cry and a crashing sound. I thought sure the demons had broken in when I whirled around, Windex bottle raised and ready for battle. A second later I was down on the floor, crouching next to Dean who sat there biting his lip hard against the pain. If I'd thought he was pale before...

He'd tried to get up and his leg collapsed beneath him. I saw why too. Nearly the entire leg of his sweats was soaked with new blood. The whole time we'd been sitting there he'd been bleeding like a stuck pig.

"Why the hell didn't you say anything?"

"Didn't think it was this bad. Help me up."

"Not yet. Hang on."

I got up and went hunting through the drawers, finally coming up with a pair of old headphones. Grabbing a knife I cut the cord off of them and then grabbed a handful of towels out of another drawer.

We padded the leg good with the towels but when I yanked that cord tight around his thigh I thought sure he was going to pass out. It hurt, and good. I helped him back on his feet only after I was sure the bleeding stopped. Tried not to touch the other hurts but it was damn hard not to. Dean just set his teeth and took it. I kept remembering what Bobby had told me.

"_It don't get easier. You don't get numb. You just learn to stuff that hurt down deep in its own little place until you can deal with it. Now I've seen some nasty deaths before. This was one of the worst. Not 'cause it was gory, but because it was family. I heard the screamin' from downstairs, and by the time I got up there..._

_Devil dog literally shredded that boy. Not a drop of blood was left in 'im and his eyes wide open and sstarin...you go out like that and it leaves a mark. It was bad, real bad. He fought til he just couldn't fight any more, and poor Sam watchin' the whole thing..."_

It made me think of Bill, torn to pieces and still hanging on to life when he shoulda just let go. John spared him a lot of pain with that bullet. Nobody spared Dean any pain, not even death, not even resurrection.

He wasn't broken completely, but pretty damn close. It wouldn't take much.

We both turned our heads at the sound of breaking glass coming from the living room. I felt a draft and I knew they'd gotten into the house. Behind me I could see leering faces at the kitchen window. One of them suddenly thrust a fist through the glass there too, but yanked his arm out quickly when it touched the line of salt on the sill. At the door to the kitchen four demons stood behind the salt line. Two of them looked at it and the sigil with smirks on their stolen faces. The two at the window laughed and one of them started chanting. If it was Latin it was an old dialect. I couldn't understand it.

Dean listened. He heard a word he knew. "Air. That's not good. Ellen..."

The draft I'd felt kicked up to a breeze, and then an outright wind racing around the kitchen. It picked up my hair and tugged at our clothes. I was having a hard time keeping myself upright. The chanting got louder and the wind blew harder. Our salt was moving, which was bad. Worse was the fact that the rough salt was eroding away the marker on the floor like it was being sand blasted. Our defenses were crumbling, and fast.

I ducked under Dean's arm, supporting his weak side, and hauled him to his feet.

"Pantry! Hurry!"

Of course we weren't fast enough. Son-of-a-bitches swarmed into the kitchen - two from the living room, and one squeezing through the window. One quick little bitch snatched a handful of my hair. Happened so fast I hardly knew what had happened. Jerked me backward, exposed my throat and would have sliced it open with the knife she carried if Dean hadn't nailed her in the face with holy water. I choked on sulfur fumes while she spun away shrieking like nobody's business.

Her buddy came at Dean. I let him have it. We made it a few more feet toward the pantry door before the third bastard ducked one of Dean's sprays and came at me. The hit he made on me might have broken something if I hadn't side swiped him with the holy water. It slowed his momentum. His tackle just knocked me down and away from Dean. I hit the floor hard, couldn't breathe the wind was knocked so far outta me. The demon scrambled away. Two more surged in through the door.

Without me Dean couldn't stand on his own. He went down real quick. Didn't help that one of the demons had hold of him. I saw it smirk as it grabbed his arm and hauled him up to his knees. I was gasping' air like a fish out of water. I made it to my knees before I got slapped back down. I tasted blood. Bastard bloodied my nose. I snatched up that Windex bottle and went after the one who hit me.

"Ellen!"

Dean's voice was ragged, but he managed to get some volume in it before the demon holding him punched him hard in the side. Never in my life had I heard anybody scream like that before. The demons all laughed.

Not for long.

I had both bottles now. Mine, and Dean's. I sprayed everything in sight, broke open Dean's bottle and started tossing water in gobs. It burned them where it touched their skin, sending up smoke that stunk like sulfur and something dead. They let go of me, and they let go of Dean. I reached down and grabbed him by the collar of his t-shirt.

"MOVE! NOW NOW NOW!"

Adrenaline maybe, I don't know, but something gave me the strength I needed to get that boy on his feet. I guess I was just mad. I'd finally had it up to here with being a victim. That's a Hunter mind-set, and I had always understood it in theory, but never experienced it the way they did. I'd lost a lot to those bastards. Maybe it wasn't a demon that got Bill, but it might as well have been. Demons, creatures of the night, the lure of hunting took my Jo away from me. They killed my friends – John, Ash, many others. They killed innocents too, average folk who happened to have the bad luck to stop in the Roadhouse the day the demons came.

I'll never forget that day, coming back from town and seeing the flames reaching up to the sky. If I'd gotten back just a few seconds sooner I would have heard the screams. A few _minutes_ earlier and I would have been doing some screaming myself. I would have been dead.

I was fed up. If it was the last thing I ever did I was not going to let them have what they wanted, and it was obvious what they wanted was Dean.

I dragged him into the pantry. A demon rushed the door. I blinded it with holy water and slammed the door shut before it could recover. I fumbled with the lock. More demons came to pound on the door but they couldn't get in. I yanked the cord on the lightbulb hanging over my head and pulled a container of salt down off the shelf. Out of my pocket came a marker. I put down salt and drew the sigils I needed to keep them at bay.

"Here," Dean said hoarsely. His hand closed over mine. It was sticky with blood and shaking, but strong enough still to guide my own. He added another mark, one I didn't know. "So they don't pull that wind trick again," he whispered.

That's the last thing he said before he passed out.

* * *

I knew better than to be fooled by how quiet it got after a while. They were still out there, still waiting for a chance to get in and get us, still trying to come up with a new plan. By my watch over an hour passed. I'd tried to look Dean over, find out how badly he was hurt, but there was a lot of blood and it was hard to tell where it came from. I had to just be satisfied that he was breathing which he was, barely.

It was so quiet, and he was so out of it, I really jumped when I heard his voice in the dark. It wasn't much more than a whisper, but in such close confines, it seemed loud.

"You know what this means don't you?"

"We're gonna to have to eat all my granola bars?" I asked.

If he laughed, I didn't catch it. "No," he said. "It means Sam's alive. They wouldn't have bothered with me if he wasn't."

"We're bait?"

"Maybe, maybe not. We could just be leverage, I don't know. Depends on what they're up to."

"No good, whatever it is." I turned on the light. He was still lying crumpled on his side. His color wasn't good at all. "You okay?"

"Bastard broke a rib. Tore some out stitches too."

I loosened the tourniquet around his thigh, letting the blood circulate a bit, before tightening it up again. The wound was still bleeding and now, thanks to the demons, so were several of the other wounds on his torso.

"You're losin' too much blood."

"Wasn't much there to begin with," he murmured. "Doesn't matter. They'll take me dead or alive." The look he gave me was poignant. "You, they'll just take dead."

"You think I don't know that?" I asked. "Bitch nearly opened up my neck." There was a roll of paper towel on the shelf above my head. I pulled it down and ripped off the plastic wrap. "Let's see what we can do to patch you up."

We put a thick pad of paper towel beneath his shirt, holding it tight against the open wounds. It would at least slow down the bleeding for a little bit. I hoped it would. He was starting to shiver. Shock, I thought. That's what was going to kill him.

"Ellen?"

"Yeah."

"I don't want to die."

"You don't listen too good," I said, breaking open a bottle of water and taking a quick swig. I helped Dean sit up, balancing him against my shoulder as I helped him get a drink. "I said we're not going to die."

His voice broke. "I can't go back there. I can't. If I die..."

"Dean..."

"You don't know!" His fingers dug into my arm. His eyes were glassy, pupils dilated wide. "You don't know what it's like there."

"And you don't know that's where you'll end up!" I said fiercely, breaking free of his grip I grabbed up his hand and held it tightly in mine. "Dean. You fulfilled your end of the bargain."

"No, I didn't!"

"How? How didn't you? You died, you went to Hell..."

"She owns me, Ellen," he hissed. "She owns me. If I die I'll go back. I'll go back...as long as she lives...I'll go..."

I felt his hand go limp. Looking down I saw he'd passed out again, his head lolling against my shoulder. I let go of his hand and reached for his neck. His pulse was weak but his heart was beating a mile a minute, fluttering like the wings of a butterfly. I looked around for a blanket, towel, something to keep him warm with but found nothing I could use. Pulling him closer I wrapped my arms around him, using my own body as a blanket.

"Hang on, son. If Sam's alive, he'll come. Just hang on, okay? Hang on."

I wondered if he really knew what he was talking about, if Lilith would claim him again if he died. The look of fear on his face was something I never wanted to see again. Bobby had been right. What Dean had gone through before had left him scarred for sure. Scarred and _scared,_ scared out of his wits. What _had_ Hell been like, I wondered, to have done this to him? Nothing I wanted to experience, that's for damn sure.

When I was young my family attended church on a regular basis. My Mom and Pop were Baptists, the deep-Southern, fire and brimstone sort who believed in a wrathful God. You behaved yourself or you'd get cast down into the fiery pit where Satan and his devils would maim and torture you for your sins. I remember when I was little coming home from church afraid to do anything in case it be some sin I had committed out of ignorance. Was pulling my sister's hair a sin? What about sticking gum to the bottom of my chair in school? It took me a while to figure out what sin really meant.

Far as I could see those Winchester boys were doing the best they could. Maybe they cheated the law a little here and there, and Dean certainly knew how to have fun, but they were _good boys_. It wasn't their outsides that God looked at, it was their insides. Inside Dean was a heart of gold. He knew his duty, and that was what counted.

"God," I said quietly, and somewhat indignantly – as if I could talk to God like that. "You know this boy, you know there's goodness in him. Don't you let him suffer any more. Don't you do it!"

The only answer I got was the thud of something heavy against the door. The wood groaned and cracked but the door held. I heard the demons outside begin laughing. I heard breath at the crack at the bottom of the door and a low, ominous, voice.

"Little pig, little pig, let me in..."

"Go to Hell!" I shouted.

He kicked the door – hard. "Wrong answer!"

They all shrieked with laughter. I held Dean tighter when the door shook in its frame. They were attacking it with something, something big and hard and heavy. A sledge hammer I guessed from the thud it made on the door. Another hit and I could see a round bulge protruding through the wood. It wasn't far from breaking.

"Come out little pig!" the demon yelled. "Or I'll burn your house down!"

Lighter fluid. I smelled lighter fluid. The fumes were strong from beneath the door. Dean was right. They had no reason to keep either of us alive. I was expendable. They could use him against Sam whether he lived or died, and despite my reassurances, we were both going to die.

I thought about the fire at the Roadhouse, and I thought about the demon with the knife. I was going to fry like those poor people did. I wasn't going to die tortured either. I'd go out fighting, and if I kept them off Dean long enough for Sam to get there, well – that was a good thing. I let Dean slide out of my arms to the floor and struggled to my feet, making my way toward the door.

My fingers slipped on the doorknob. On the second try I got it open. The door swung open slowly.

Standing outside were six demons. One held a lighter, another a bottle of charcoal starter fluid. The she-demon who had tried to knife me smirked and clenched her weapon tighter in her hand. It pissed me off to see a third demon clutching my best chef's knife. The rest were unarmed.

Me? I had a carton of Morton's iodized table salt and a Windex bottle now only half full of holy water. I was outnumbered, but good. I put on a good front though, a real good front, and I saw a couple of them look at each other like they were trying to figure out if I was a genuine threat or not.

I took my foot and broke the salt line at the threshold, and scrubbed away at the marks on the floor, breaking the trap. I tightened my grip on my weapons, as they were, and nodded my head.

"Come and get me."

I'm not ashamed to say I nearly wet myself when they did. They surged forward with an unholy howling noise. I prepared to burn the shit out of them with all that I had.

But they only got to take a single step. Over the sound of their shrieks came another voice – deep and commanding. It was commanding enough that they actually obeyed it.

"STOP!"

I was panting even though the fight hadn't even started yet. The demons fell quiet and all you could hear _was_ my panting. I heard the voice again and this time I recognized it.

"Get away from the door."

The demons immediately moved away from the pantry. The one with the lighter snarled.

"You don't scare me, _Sammy_."

I stared out the door. Sure enough, standing in the middle of my trashed kitchen was Sam. His clothes were torn, disheveled, and stained with blood both old and fresh – they were the same clothes he'd been wearing when he left two days earlier. His hair was limp and greasy, darkened with dirt, while his face bore a three day beard and mustache. There was cut across his cheek that still oozed blood. For just a moment I saw John standing there, looking like he had the last time I saw him in person, the day he took my Bill away.

I first met Sam when he was a baby, not long after Mary died. He'd been sick, colicky, but when his belly wasn't aching he was a sweet, happy baby. Later John showed us pictures of the boys as they grew. He always seemed awestruck when he looked at them, as if he couldn't believe they would one day stop being little boys. In almost all the pictures Sam looked subdued, barely smiling, always having something sad lurking behind his eyes. I wondered then where that happy baby had gone.

What would John say now, I thought, to see baby Sammy looking and acting so much like his father? Would he feel pride, or sadness?

A little of both. I'd felt the same way on that long, difficult ride back to Nebraska from Philadelphia. I was proud of Jo's strength, determination, and intelligence, but the fact she'd made clear the life she had chosen, and that I would most likely lose her, broke my heart. I think seeing Sam become what he had been, would have broken John's heart too.

Sam held no weapon. Both hands were empty, held up palms out as if to show everyone he was unarmed, but as we stared at him he slowly reached behind him and pulled a bone handled knife from his belt. The blade was stained dark, the handle charred in places. He held it up so the demons could get a good look at it.

"She's dead," he said bluntly, his voice low and growling. "Who wants to be next?"

The demons wasted no time making their decision. They threw back their heads and screamed, vomiting stinking black smoke into the air. It swirled around the kitchen ceiling before shooting out through the broken window and disappearing into the darkness outside. One by one their possessed bodies collapsed to the floor at Sam's feet. I was still standing inside the pantry. I hadn't seen Bobby. Now he rushed into my field of vision to tend to the demons' hosts. I'd find out later none of them would survive.

"Ellen," Sam said roughly. He put the knife away and stumbled toward me. "Ellen, are you okay?"

The man I'd seen just moments before vanished, leaving behind a bone weary and frightened boy. I sagged against the shelves of canned goods lined up at my side and put down my "weapons."

"Yeah," I said, and it was hard not to grab him up in a hug when he reached me. I think we both could have used it. There was another priority though. "Dean. Check on Dean."

Sam's bulk made the pantry seem even smaller when he came in and knelt at his brother's side. He gently rolled Dean over onto his back, touching his face and forehead before letting his fingers find the pulse point at Dean's neck.

"Dammit," he cursed. "Dean..."

My heart sank. "Oh God. Sam I'm sorry. I..."

He didn't reply. He got his arms under Dean's body and lifted him from the floor. I followed them into the living room. I got a good look at Dean and I knew we'd lost him.

His lips had begun to turn blue. He wasn't breathing. There was no pulse. Sam laid him on the sofa. He undid the tourniquet, removed the makeshift bandaging of paper towels from Dean's chest. I thought then he'd begin CPR but he didn't. He just sat there, eyes closed, drawing in several deep breaths one right after another. I had no idea what he was doing, but Bobby did.

Bobby rushed past me and grabbed Sam's arm. "Sam, no!"

"Leave me alone, Bobby," Sam said gruffly, and pulled his arm away from the older man. "I'm going to do this."

"You don't know if it will work!"

"Worked before."

"But not since, Sam! Please! Let me get him to the hospital."

"He's already dead!" Sam turned and shouted. His eyes had gone dark – not demon dark mind you – but the gray/green color had deepened to a darker shade, like storm clouds on the horizon. Never knew until that moment what the term "smoldering gaze" looked like. I almost expected Bobby to burst into flames. "Let me do this!"

Bobby knew when it was time to back off. He came over to stand by me, putting his hand on my arm. We stood there and watched what would happen together.

Now I could get all flowery with describing it, talking about bright light and angels singing and all that, but there wasn't any light and we're pretty sure what Sam's got in him doesn't come from the angels. He didn't carry on any either, howling or chanting or speaking in tongues. All he did was put one hand on his brother's forehead, and the other on his chest. He took one more deep breath, closed his eyes...

And that was it.

We waited for only a few minutes before Dean's color started coming back. He began to breathe again, letting out a little moan of pain that, eerily, Sam echoed. The two of them were breathing in time, inhaling, exhaling, keeping perfect pace with each other. When Dean's brow creased, so did Sam's. It was both fascinating and creepy. I moved closer to Bobby but we both kept our vigil.

Sam stayed there, kneeling at his brother's side, for better than a half hour before he removed his hands and opened his eyes – as much as he could open them. They were heavy lidded and rolled back like he were drunk or stoned. He wobbled, swaying on his knees. There was something real wrong with him. Bobby saw it too. He left me and caught Sam before he could topple backward into the coffee table. Between the two of us we lowered him to the floor so he wouldn't hurt himself. He was out like a light, laying there unmoving. I was afraid he might have killed himself.

I stepped back into the kitchen, taking Bobby with me. "He all right?"

"Exhausted, " Bobby said quietly. He didn't look too good himself. "We've been going non-stop and..."

"And what?"

"He killed Lilith just last night. I've never seen anythin' like it. He tracked her down based on nuthin' I could see. He just...knew. Wouldn't let me come in with him. I just heard her screamin' from outside. She'd taken a little girl again." His expression looked pained. "Sam tried to heal her after but couldn't. He tried to heal others, the ones we cleaned of Lilith's little buddies."

"And they died?"

"All of them. He can only heal Dean so far."

"So far," I mused. "Probably because there has to be some emotional attachment."

Bobby agreed. "And somethin' more frightening."

I frowned. "Frightening?"

"This, whatever it is Sam's got – he can't control it. He don't know how it works. That she-demon Ruby told him she could help him but Dean wouldn't go for it. That's the next thing he's gonna want to do, hunt down Ruby."

"Where is she?"

"Dunno. Hell maybe? Lilith did somethin' to her. We don't know what."

"Dean won't like havin' Ruby back in the picture."

"I know, but Dean won't like what Sam'll become if he self destructs either." Bobby looked grim, more than he usually did. "He didn't use a devil's trap on Lilith. He pinned her up on the wall like they always do to ya." He tapped his temple with one finger. "Some kind of telekinesis. But he couldn't judge his own strength. Broke every bone in that poor kid's body."

"Christ..."

"Not. Quite."

"Bobby," I hissed. "This is _Sam_ we're talking about!"

"Who _everybody_ is talkin' about, and the talk ain't good, Ellen. What is he gonna do when some Hunter gets him cornered and tries to put a bullet in him?"

I froze, and then a shudder went through me. I remembered what Dean had told me about Sam, and their father's last words.

"They'll keep themselves out of harms way."

"Yeah, I suppose..."

"And if Sam _does_ turn South," I whispered. "It won't be just some Hunter that puts a bullet in him." I glanced over to the sofa where Dean seemed to be sleeping quietly.

Bobby's eyes widened. "Dean? He'd never..."

I looked back at him. _My_ eyes were burning, and I don't cry easy.

"Don't be so sure about that, Bobby. We're talkin' about a man who has spent time in Hell. If anybody knows what'll happen if Sam goes bad, it's Dean."

* * *

I was exhausted myself, but I knew we had a mess to clean up and the Winchester boys were in no condition to help. Bobby and I loaded up his car with the bodies, hurrying before dawn arrived and my little suburban neighborhood started waking up. I hated living there, but after the Roadhouse burned it was the only place I had left to go. It had been my grandmother's house, and Bill and I took it over just after we married, before he told me what his _real_ job was, before we opened the Roadhouse.

Anyway, Bobby left, and I hauled my tired old ass to bed. I slept for hours, and slept deep too. I'd never been so tired in all my life. I was still tired when I finally woke up – sometime around four in the afternoon – but it was time to get up.

I was surprised to see someone had beat me to the coffee. Dean sat at the kitchen table, nursing a bright pink mug Jo had gotten me for mother's day once when she was just a kid. It said, "World's Greatest Mom" on one side. I don't know how he managed it without waking me up but he'd showered and gotten himself into some clean clothes. When he got up to get more brew and to pour me a cup, there was no sign he was hurt. This time Sam had healed him completely. Good as new.

Or as close to healed as he could be. I'd seen his hands shaking' and heard what he'd had to say when those demons were at our doorstep. Some hurts can't be healed that easy – if you could call what Sam did easy.

The first thing he said was, "He's sold his soul, Ellen. Not like I did, but he's sold it just the same."

I went over the cupboard. I had some brandy tucked away there. I added some to my cup and then to his. "Maybe," I said, sitting down. "Maybe he's just rented it out for a bit."

That got a wry smile. "Right."

"Not everyone who drinks alcohol becomes an alcoholic, Dean." I tried, but I couldn't keep the awe out of my voice. It's not everyday you get to see a resurrection up close and in person. "He _healed_ you."

"That's my point. It's not right, Ellen. It's not..."

Human. He didn't say it. Didn't have to. I could see it in his face.

"I don't know what to do now," he murmured. "He's changed. I've changed."

"Change is part of life."

"I don't want it part of _my_ life!" His eyes met mine, but then he seemed to find that crazy pink cup more interesting. "I just...I want things to be the way they were, but they can't be. They can't ever be."

It was true. Once things went so far, you could never go back. I hated living in the suburbs, watching soaps all day, trying to decide what the hell I was going to do with myself next. I missed Jo. I missed my roadhouse. I wanted to go _home_.

"Your father," I said after a bit. "Was a willful, stubborn, obsessive son-of-a-bitch. But," I added quickly. "He was a smart son-of-a-bitch who knew how to play the game. He placed his bet on you, Dean, and since John didn't like to lose, I wouldn't second guess him." I reached out a hand and placed it over his. "Sam is still your brother. He's still worthy of salvation."

"I have nothing left."

"Faith, Dean."

"I can't..."

I let go of his hand. "Can you kill him?"

He looked up at me sharply.

"Because," I continued. "If you give up, you may have to do just that."

Dean didn't say anything, but Sam did. Neither of us heard him come to stand in the doorway until he said Dean's name.

"Dean."

We both jumped a little. I turned around. Dean looked past my shoulder. Sam still looked pretty rough, real tired. He probably hurt all over too from sleeping on the floor as long as he had.

"I need you," Sam went on to say. "Whether I tapped into it now or later, it would still be the same. At least now I have you to keep me in line." His voice got a little teary. "Don't give up on me. Don't give up on yourself."

They stared at each other like they were talking without talking. I thought back to when Sam had been doing his healing, when they had seemed to be breathing in time with each other, as if they were two halves of a whole. Maybe they were, because Sam definitely had a point. They needed each other. All they had left in the world was each other. Ain't nothing stronger than family.

After a while Dean finally sniffed and cleared his throat. He set his coffee aside as he got up. "Who said I was giving up on anything? I'm not a quitter." He went to the door and gave his brother a stern look. "Damn straight I'll keep you in line. You've gotten real sloppy lately Sleeping Beauty." Pushing past Sam, he continued toward the door.

Sam frowned. "Wait, where are you going?"

"To check on my car. I don't trust Ellen's neighbors not to steal my hubcaps."

As soon as he was gone, Sam sat down at the table with a small, bitter smile. "Bless me, father, for I have sinned."

"One thing bartenders and priests have in common."

"Got time for another appointment?"

I raised my eyebrow. "Sure, I guess."

Sam sighed. Like I said, he still looked real wiped out, and real young. Hard to believe he was supposed to be some sort of demonic messiah. Hard to believe I'd seen him heal a dead man. Turns out that's what he wanted to talk about too.

"I could see him," he whispered. "When he was in Hell. I heard him screaming. I could see what they were doing to him. There wasn't any question, Ellen. I _had_ to save him or it would have driven me insane."

"Oh," I said. "Sam..."

He interrupted me quickly. "But last night was different. When I healed him before I found him in Hell. Last night...last night I found him at peace. I can't explain it. I don't know how, what words to use. Words can't even come close to what I saw." His eyes were bright when he looked up at me, bright and filled with something _I_ can only describe as reverence. "Ellen. God exists."

I didn't know what to say. I don't know if I believe him. What matters is that he believes it, just like Dumbo and the feather. He won't fall as long as he has faith.

What I did say was, "You need to tell your brother."

"He won't believe me, not anymore." Sam looked back over his shoulder in the direction Dean had taken and he echoed what I'd been thinking the day before. "He's been abused, badly. If I try to help him he'll bite back like a wounded animal. It's going to take a while for him to trust me again."

"You didn't send him to Hell, Sam."

"No," he said softly, with the saddest expression I've ever seen. "I brought him back to life - _this_ life - and that's bad enough."

* * *

It's been six months since the boys left. I don't know how they're doing. Haven't heard from them. I've heard _of_ them though and I think they'll be okay. Bobby said things were chilly between the two of them for a while but it's starting to get better. Sam's found his faith again. I hope some of it rubs off on his brother.

I put Grandma's house up for sale. Got just enough out of it to buy me a little place in Arkansas. I think I might open a roadhouse, and this time I'm going to ward it from top to bottom against demons.

My shoulder is still Dean's when and if he ever needs it. I owe him, I owe him big. You see, Jo finally called me, yesterday, Mother's Day. We kept the talk petty neutral. I think we'll heal too but it's going to take time. We both said some pretty hurtful things to each other the day she left. I asked her what made her decide to call me and she made a little disgusted noise.

"Dean," she said. "Dean Winchester."

"Dean?"

"Yeah. I ran into him the other night. He told me I needed to call you. I thought something was wrong." She paused before she asked very quietly, "Mom, you are okay aren't you?"

There was a lot I wanted to say. More than anything I wanted to beg her to come home, get out of Hunting while her body and her soul were still in one piece. I remembered looking at Sam and seeing him as the one thing I knew he had never wanted to be - his father. I recalled the sight of Dean sitting at my kitchen table, barely alive, struggling to drag himself back into battle with a spirit all but destroyed by the fires of Hell - just because it was the right thing to do...

Jo begging me to understand why she had to follow in her father's footsteps.

I sure as hell don't like it, but now I do understand.

They're soldiers in a war that's been fought since the beginning of time. It isn't a choice, it's a calling.

"I'm fine," I said finally. "Don't worry, Jo. You just take care of yourself, okay?"

She sounded relieved. "Thanks, Mom."

I hung up, and I cried. I cried for a good long time, but then I remembered what Sam had said after he'd healed Dean the second time. If God exists, I needed him to hear what I had to say.

I prayed for Jo, and Bobby, and all the other Hunters out there doing His work, but most of all I prayed for my Winchester boys. Theirs is a long, hard road, and there is a lot of it left for them to travel.

Keep them safe, keep them sane, keep them pointed toward the light.

With all my love,

Ellen.


End file.
